Ten thousand years would not suffice
by Altariel
Summary: The Stewards of Gondor consider their oath.


**Ten thousand years would not suffice**

_2984 TA_

Ecthelion was dead. They sealed him in stone, and mourned. Three months passed before the new Steward took his oath. The summons had gone out across all that remained of the ancient realm of Gondor, and the lords of the fiefdoms had been requested and required to attend.

A solemn day for a solemn man. Denethor knew he did not inspire love, but he knew that he commanded respect. He walked the length of the hall alone, and stood before the empty throne, the white rod in his hand, and promised to hold it and rule until the king should return. When the words were said, he knelt before the throne, bowed his head, then rose and faced the men who had been his peers, and of whom he was now Lord.

From the side of the hall, the babe began to wail. Finduilas, quickly and quietly, got up from her chair, the child in her arms, and withdrew. The other boy was not perturbed by her departure. He sat on the edge of the seat, eyes wide with excitement and pride.

Denethor took his seat, the plain black chair at the foot of the steps. Hurin, the Warden of the Keys, stepped forwards, and gestured to the Prince of Dol Amroth to come forwards. Adrahil knelt, and took his oath, and then they all came, one by one, to offer their swords, to swear to serve the Steward and, through him, serve the King.

* * *

_2993 TA_

Húrin watched as Boromir, fifteen years old and filled with the impulsive pride of a young prince on the very edge of his full powers, stood glaring up at the empty throne. Denethor, coming to stand beside his heir, placed his hand upon his shoulder. Softly, he said, "My son, what troubles you?"

"A thousand years," he said. "And yet still we sit here?" He pointed at the plain black chair at the foot of the steps that led up to the throne. His younger brother, sombre and studious, and already adept at cloaking himself, took a quiet step or two away, and busied himself looking at a nearby statue.

But Denethor – never predictable – was more amused than angry. "We are stewards, not kings."

"How many years, then?"

"We hold rod and rule—"

"Until the king shall return. Yes, I know that. But, truly, sir! How much more service must be given? How much more blood? How many more hundreds of years does it take to make a steward a king?"

The boy was running his fingers over the inscription at the foot of the statue. It said:

_Eärnur son of Eärnil  
1928-2043-2050  
Thirty-third King of Gondor_

Húrin came to stand beside the boy, putting himself between him and his father and brother.

"My son," said the Steward, gently, "this is the realm of Gondor. Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty. But in Gondor, ten thousand years would not suffice."

The boy looked up at the man standing beside him. Húrin winked, and was rewarded with a most impish smile. _Good_, thought Húrin, _that spirit burns strong_.

"_Arandur_," the boy said, softly. "King's servants. Poor Boromir."

Húrin, considering Eärnur, squeezed the boy's shoulder, and nodded.

"Ten thousand years," muttered Boromir. He turned on his heel, and strode back down the hall, his father following. "Faramir!" Denethor called back over his shoulder. "Come on! Stop _dawdling_!"

And the second son – the spare – sighed to himself, and raced after them.

* * *

_March 27__th__ 3019 TA_

Faramir slipped in quietly from a side door. It was very early in the morning. Two others were there: the Marshal of the Riders, and Húrin, Warden of the Keys, carrying the white rod. Hearing quick footsteps on the stone, the three men turned. Éowyn had come.

"Well," Faramir said, when she stood by his side. "We are all very busy. Let us begin."

They walked to stand before the throne. Húrin, holding out the rod of the office, said, "Speak, sire."

Faramir reached out to place his hand upon the white rod. In a clear voice that rang through the empty hall, he said, "Here do I swear to hold rod and rule in the name of the king, until he shall return. So say I, Faramir, son of Denethor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Mardil's heir, of Gondor."

Húrin, handing him the rod, said, "Steward of Gondor, twenty-seventh in the line from Mardil, you are charged to protect and to maintain the realm – until the king comes again."

His voice broke slightly at this last. He thought of the man he had served so loyally, and for so long, whom he had loved, and of that terrible death. He thought of the son, the heir – so brave, so strong, so flawed… How he had loved them both; but they had not been sufficient for this task.

Faramir's hand was upon his arm. "_Arandur_," said the son of Denethor and Finduilas. "King's servants, all of us. You and I are blessed, are we not? Against the odds we have lived to see this. Gondor's victory. Our victory."

"Yes," said Hurin, his voice hoarse. "Yes."

Then Faramir, carrying the white rod, knelt down before the empty throne. He bowed his head, rose, and returned the rod to Húrin's safekeeping.

It was done. Éowyn, walking beside the new Lord of Gondor as they went out into the courtyard said, "Is this ceremony always so brief?"

He turned, and looked up at the plain white banner flying from the White Tower. "I wouldn't know. This is the only one I have attended."

* * *

_Altariel, 21__st__ December 2019_


End file.
